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What the fuck is wrong with me?
Grinder grunts and bumps me away from his ol’ lady’s bedside. “You need anything, buttercup?” he asks.
She peers up at him with hope and affection in her eyes. “More water?”
Grinder nudges me with his elbow. “Dex and I will be right back.”
“You need help for getting some water, old man?” I ask. There. That’s better. Familiar territory.
“Stop running your mouth and move your ass,” he grumbles.
Serena’s soft laughter follows us as we step out of the room.
“He’s a beautiful baby, Grinder. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Dex.” He pats my shoulder. “Walk with me.”
The last thing I feel like doing is walking through the maternity ward. I’m not intimately acquainted with how this hospital is structured but if he gets me anywhere near the neonatal unit, I’m out of here.
But he stops at a small lounge area with a kitchen and goes straight for a stack of plastic pitchers, picking one up and setting it on the counter.
“I wanted to give you a heads-up,” he says.
“About?” I stuff my hands in my pockets and breathe through my mouth. The crisp, antiseptic smell permeating the hospital is starting to get to me.
“Serena and I would like you to be Lincoln’s godfather,” he announces.
I stare at him. I know what all those words mean but I don’t understand why he’s directing them atme.
He drills me with a hard stare. “Dex?”
“Why me?”
“Whynotyou?”
“I’m not married. Don’t you usually want a married couple to be the godparents?”
“Gee, I’m not sure. I’ve never done this before,” he answers with a heaping dose of sarcasm.
“Wouldn’t you rather have Rock do it?”
Grinder glares at me. “I’m askingyou.”
“Or Z? Z’s your president now.”
“Thank you for educating me on the hierarchy of the club, Dixon. What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
“I…I don’t know anything about being a godfather.”
“Perfect. I know fuck-all about being a father.”
“That’s not true,” I mutter. “You’re going to be a great father.”
“This is important to Serena,” he explains. “She’s comfortable with you. She likes you.”
Those words steal the rest of my protests. “Okay. Yeah.”
“Good.” He pats my shoulder. “Now act surprised when she asks you.” He grabs the pitcher and walks over to an ice machine. For a few seconds the grind and clink of ice cubes drowns out every other sound. He tops it off with water and jerks his head toward the hallway.
